


Sepulchre

by mousaerato



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Language of Flowers, M/M, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9940061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: It was all too perfect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this back in December of 2016; I received a bevy of harassment and (unsolicited) criticism of it. The harassment got to be severe enough that I deleted the original and closed the tumblr account affiliated with my AO3 username to stop it, but a few people who know my personal accounts on social media asked that I re-post it. I decided to clean up the draft version and post the more polished result again. This piece means a lot to me, so I'm pretty sensitive about it.
> 
> I still highly recommend listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyUhEjtlDLA) when you get to "Akechi Goro made his move."

                Crisp, cool autumn air softly rustled the nearby tree branches, shaking their leaves loose to waft to the ground. The thin drag of the dried leaflets against the earth and concrete, coupled with the subtle whistle of the breeze, were the only audible signs of life. All else was subdued, reverent in the light of the clear full moon.

                Kurusu Akira glanced wistfully skyward before turning to face his friend directly. Looking into his sepia-hued eyes, the black-haired boy smiled slightly, quickly wiping his eyes with his right hand and the dark sleeve of his coat. The boy with the chestnut locks felt his eyes narrow with intrigue and curiosity at the sight – _was he tearing up?_

                “What’s wrong?” asked Akechi Goro, voice revealing some urgency and concern. Seeing Akira like this was novel, almost jarring.

                His question was answered with another patient smile and a quiet, delicate reprimand: “Shh…do you see this?”

                “See what?”

                “It’s…almost too beautiful, isn’t it?”

                “Oh,” exhaled Goro with a chuckle, “I thought something was wrong for a second…”

                “No,” he whispered. “This is incredible.” He paused for a moment and closed his eyes to think before speaking. “It’s….easy to miss.”

                The young detective had trained himself to look at things analytically, or so he had convinced himself; every detail was accounted for, certainly, but merely for its usefulness. Still, he had to confess that looking around at the unbroken, dark sky, seeing the soft glow of the moonlight, feeling the wind on his face and his sweater, and savoring the scent of autumn leaves was invigorating – touching, even.

                “I guess it is,” Goro admitted as he looked at Akira’s face again. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles then, satisfied with the boy’s emotion. After all the time they spent getting to know each other, Goro had chosen what he thought would be the perfect night – and from the looks of it, he had succeeded.  “Let’s get going, though.”

                “Right,” Akira responded firmly. His frame seemed to fill quickly with a kind of resolute energy, Goro noticed – he always appreciated the leader’s ability to get serious at a moment’s notice. They were here to raid the Palace, after all.

* * *

                Within the Palace, Crow briefly allowed himself a moment to savor his good fortune. After weeks of conversations over coffee, walking through town in daylight, and proving his value as a combatant, the boy in the red mask had earned Joker’s trust. The one codenamed Crow came to Joker privately that night, begging him to join him in the Palace for something important. Joker didn’t even protest when Crow explained there was “not enough time” to get the others – and he was certain, he explained, they could handle it alone.  That level of confidence – yes, Goro was immensely grateful.

                Sure enough, the maze was easy for them to navigate, with few shadows for company. While he enjoyed the thrill of fighting, Akira seemed to enjoy the moments of quiet. Goro watched Akira’s eyes soften in appreciation once he knew an area was clear of shadows, taking in the scenery. This was an _actual_ palace: stone walls, stained glass windows, wooden doors, beautiful paintings. This place was not as sinister or foreboding as Kamoshida’s palace – in fact, it was almost _sweet_.

                The boy in the black trench coat looked over to his partner, his inverse, smirking: “Doesn’t this place seem _cute_?”

                Crow responded uneasily, confused. “I…beg your pardon?”

                “The shadows aren’t strong here. It’s almost like this is a palace made by a child. Doesn’t this remind you of fairy tales?”

                “I wouldn’t let your guard down,” Crow responded tautly. “Those stories always have an enormous fire-breathing dragon in them, right? We just haven’t run into it yet.”

                “True,” Joker admitted. “But…it’s just kind of nice.”

                Crow gave his partner a laugh at that remark. “What about this is _nice_ , exactly?”

                The brown-haired boy felt a warmth flicker in his chest when Joker spoke in that quiet, reverent voice he used before they arrived: “I’ve always loved these stories, I guess. Maybe it’s just m-”

                Joker was cut off by Crow smiling a little too much as he giggled, making Joker feel a little self-conscious.  He asked in a voice still too kind to be intimidating, “What?”

                “I’ve always liked them too,” Goro admitted in a whisper. Both boys took a look at Crow’s garments – the princely white, the royal gold, the scarlet cape – and laughed, as if one of them should have figured that fact out much earlier.  “I think there’s a chamber ahead, though,” the boy in the gilded costume continued, voice serious again.  “Maybe that’s our dragon.”

                Joker nodded in agreement and treaded cautiously, beckoning his teammate to stay close and watch for any signs of attack. Though he did so, the brown-haired boy found himself looking at Joker – no, at _Akira_ – in those sparse, spare moments. He was truly unbelievable, exceptional in Goro’s eyes. Of all the people he had ever known, Goro had to concede that Kurusu Akira was – dare he acknowledge it – _special_. By that same token, the boy called Crow _loathed_ him: he did everything so perfectly and _effortlessly_ , practically taunting Goro with every sincere smile, every spell, and every gesture of trust. Goro would have acknowledged the contradiction as masochistic if he had the time to reflect, but alas, there was none. While he had more time than he did in the past, this still had to be finished quickly, and he already knew how those moments needed to be spent. He inhaled deeply, rediscovered his focus, and returned to the present moment.

                A red gloved hand pushed at the creaky, heavy wooden door ahead of them. Slowly, the air filled with a new scent: the damp rank was replaced instead with the smell of pollen and fragrant petals. As the door finally opened totally, it became apparent that the smell paled in comparison to the sight: a large room filled to the brim with colorful, lively flowers, with not a single inch left uncovered.

                The room teemed with life and every shade imaginable: indigo pansies, vermillion and ivory lilies, red carnations, blush-hued sweet peas, delicate yellow daffodils, and radiant sunflowers that towered over everything else. Deep beneath the larger flowers, though, were two more blooms: delicate blue forget-me-nots and the beginnings of budding white roses. Goro heard a soft exhale leave Akira’s mouth as he watched him remove his mask and step delicately into the room. _Ever sentimental,_ he noted. _Even now._ A smile found its way to his face as he followed the thieves’ leader covertly into the room, still watching the dark figure intently, casting a shadow as he walked.

                Akira sat cross-legged in the makeshift meadow, bringing his face down into the petals to drink in the sweet aroma, letting the soft textures caress his face. He rose after a few moments with a large, unashamed smile on his face as he relaxed again to fall back into the flowers, feeling warm light from the stained-glass windows touch his face. Goro felt uncomfortable at the sight; he averted his eyes momentarily while he attempted to rein in the heat he felt rising to his cheeks. Something about the contrast – the dark hair mingled with the delicate pinks and yellows, the pitch-black fabric framed against white and blue petals, the criminal smiling so sweetly – made Goro feel like he was seeing something too private and _intimate_. He was practically a lamb, Goro thought before correcting himself: _No, he’s a lamb and a slaughterer. An oxymoron._

Goro tried to break the quiet delicately, pushing the door slowly back into its frame after giving the hallway another look, verifying it was clear. He sauntered forward,  slithering to Akira’s side, quiet as a ghost. Akira’s toothy grin settled into a more restrained curve of the lips, but his eyes looked brighter when he saw his friend before him.

                “We’re…alone,” Goro said softly, trying not to let his voice waver. He quickly added more to clarify his intent, sputtering: “No shadows. Coast is clear.”

                Akira sighed dreamily as he picked a single white lily to admire it in the colorful light that spilled through the windows, moving it gently so as not to lose any petals while the deep red and bright blue played along it. He laughed lightly, and hummed before speaking. “Good. I think I could stay here for a while.”

                Anxiety gripped Goro then as he looked at the boy lying down next to him. He felt his pulse quicken ever so slightly as he looked downward at Akira’s unmasked face, eyes closed and serene. “Th-this could be a trap, you know.”

                “If it was, we would have been sliced and shaved and cut to pieces already.” His voice was low and heavy with relaxation, sibilants slurred and blurred together as he spoke. The sound made Goro bite his own lip out of a nervous habit as he gulped back the fear, forcing it deep down into his chest.

                “How can you be so _calm_?”

                “We’ll be fine.” His voice was so resolute, so certain and confident – Goro couldn’t understand where the conviction came from. Was Joker really that trusting of Crow? Was Akira that trusting of _him_? Warmth returned to his chest again, and the uncertainty and anxiety evaporated in its wake. Goro found his own resolve again after cracking his fingers, shaking the excess energy from them. He just had to wait for the right moment for the two of them, he reminded himself.  _Just a little longer._

                “Okay,” Goro finally managed.

                Without warning, a scarlet hand wrapped its fingers around Goro’s wrist. The sudden pressure and warmth hit Goro like a shock – not entirely unwelcome, but certainly unexpected. He looked down at the mischievous young man to read his face: his gunmetal eyes looked hazy with bliss, and a lazy half-smile played upon his mouth before he spoke. “Come on, Crow. Relax a little.”

                His posture as he sat in the flowers stiffened. “What do you mean?”

                “Lie down. Take it in.”

                The way Akira spoke – confident and commanding, yet sweet – made it clear to the brunette that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Slowly and stubbornly, Goro let his back fall to the ground, cradled by the innumerable blooms. They tickled his legs as he stretched his limbs, finally resting on his back next to the object of his admiration and contempt. He had to admit – the warmth, the beauty, and the proximity to another human being was nice. _Nice, but not why they had come here_ , he reminded himself as he let his eyes relax in spite of himself.

                As he felt his conscious thoughts and muscle tension begin to melt away while observing the fanciful scenery, Goro was interrupted by that smooth, familiar and melodious voice: “Do you ever get so buried in work you forget everything else?”

                He was prepared to lie, but somehow, Goro’s heart let him be sincere. “Yeah…it’s been that way for years.”

                “I don’t think I’d change anything, though,” Akira murmured. “If it meant something as beautiful as this, then it was worth it.”

                “What do you mean?” asked Goro, resting on one side to glance at the musing form next to him. Akira’s faint smile remained.

                “Everything about tonight has been beautiful – did you notice it? The moonlight, the wind – even this dungeon, these flowers, the light….everything.” He sounded so grateful and at peace with the world, Goro noted with some envy.

                “It…certainly is beautiful,” he admitted, some bitterness in his voice.

                Akira shifted his position then, resting on his side to look at Goro’s face. Even with his crimson mask in place, Goro felt Akira’s gaze upon him intensely. “I’ve always felt a connection with you. You told me you wished we’d met earlier, right?”

                “Y-yeah?”

                “Well, I can’t go back in time, but I can enjoy what time we have together now.”

                Goro gulped nervously. “R-right…”

                “So just enjoy this,” he continued as he handed Goro a small bundle of blue forget-me-nots. “Who knows how many… _precious_ ,” he continued as he choked up, “incredible times like this we’ll see again?”

                A knot tied itself in Goro’s stomach then, throbbing when he looked at the small gift Akira had given him. He shuddered quietly and laid back on his stomach, furtively attempting to hide his countenance. “You’re right…there may not be any more. You really have a soft spot for beauty, don’t you?”

                “I guess I’m an idealist,” Akira started as he lay down on his back once more, “Isn’t that why you like fairy tales?”

                “I never really thought about it,” Goro admitted reluctantly.

                “Good triumphs over evil, the bad guys are always punished, love conquers all…”

                “If only life were that simple,” he interrupted solemnly.

                “ _Exactly._ So I savor these moments where it’s simple and clear.”

                _Simple and clear,_ Goro thought _. It was certainly simple and clear, wasn’t it?_ “What do you like about all this?”

                “It’s perfect,” Akira gushed as he turned to look at his dear friend, “I don’t think I could have _dreamed_ something like this – it’s like it was made for me.” Goro’s body tensed and warmed all over again. Somewhere, in a place he didn’t want to acknowledge, Goro felt _flattered._ A _perfect dream_ that involved him – that truth found its way into his heart, pushing past the years of lost time and scars, nearly breaking it in two as it rooted itself deep in his soul.

                Still, he had to be certain: “Even with me? Even after…. _everything_?”

                “Yeah,” he replied sleepily. “Perfect. Now stop worrying so much and enjoy it with me. _Please._ ”

                 “If you say so,” Goro replied warmly. He waited a few moments and let his eyes glance over at the charismatic, fascinating young man next to him: his fury, his unrehearsed grace, his smile, his innocence, his darkness, his romanticism, and his openness _enraptured_ the young detective. He was a mystery to be solved, yes – and an impediment to be overcome as well.

                Once he noticed Akira’s eyes close and his breaths become slower and deeper, Akechi Goro made his move. First, he quietly removed his mask – he wanted his eyes to be as clear as possible, in a sign of fairness. After that, he deftly removed his white gloves and placed them almost noiselessly on the ground with the forget-me-nots. He wanted nothing to separate the two of them; Akira deserved that much. This was going to be something special – it was always going to be, from the second he planned it in the secrecy of his heart.           

                Getting up on his knees, the chestnut-eyed detective made his way to the body next to him. He loomed over it like a heavy raincloud as he settled into position, one knee between Akira’s legs, careful not to touch a single piece of him in the process. He let his hands settle flat along the sides of the boy’s face, just close enough to feel the warmth of his body; he picked such a precise spot that even the displacement of petals and flowers didn’t rouse the boy from his slumber. It had to be flawless, Goro thought, or it would all have been for nothing.

                He felt his red cape slip from his back to drape over his side protectively; thankfully, it made no sound and didn’t touch Akira. No one would ever know of this except the two of them, Goro thought as he looked at the face before him: angular features, smooth alabaster skin, and jet black curls that never seemed out of place. It was the eyes, though – those piercing, scrutinizing eyes – that he admired and loathed the most. He knew he would see them soon enough.

                For a split second, Akechi Goro felt a devious thrill trickle through him. This was a compromise, in a way, but still a subtle act of both self-indulgence and defiance. He had cunningly made a way for it to work – the perfect timing, the perfect day, the perfect place for it all. He considered for a moment whispering something to the body beneath him as he shifted to bring his legs to straddle Akira’s hips, still inches away from making physical contact. Instead, he picked something more poetic that he was sure the one called Joker would appreciate: a soft breath that touched his face like the wind.

                The change in temperature and the sudden pressure upon Akira as Goro finally rested atop him forced him awake. His clear gray eyes hazily fluttered open to see a face mere centimeters from his. The eyes were dark, focused, and filled with a fire-like determination that bewitched him. The boy shuddered as he felt an index finger skim the right side of his neck. He started with a meager whisper: “Goro?”

                With Kurusu Akira’s first utterance of the detective’s name with no formalities, Goro wrapped his fingers around the delicate neck beneath him and squeezed.

                The gray eyes went wide at first, with hands desperately grabbing at the assailant’s arms while the neck twisted desperately in an attempt to escape. Akira was wise enough – ever so clever, Goro thought – not to waste any energy with kicking. Choked sounds, coupled with strained gasps for air, filled the room. Goro pressed himself into the body harder unconsciously, tightening his grip on Akira’s throat, certain that the pressure and movement would leave marks. The victim’s eyes shut tightly then, more of a wince, as if their owner was trying to think of something other than the desperate questions that swam to the front of his mind: _Why? What are you doing?_

 _Even his struggling was perfect,_ Goro thought. Akira’s eyes opened then, vision blurry and darkening around the edges. Each attempt at breath pained him as the movement brushed against those bruised areas of his neck; still, he fought against the urge to close his eyes and fall into sleep, eventually managing to taste the a brief breath of air before Goro redoubled his effort, eliciting a groan of distress from Akira.

                “Shh,” he hushed to the boy beneath him assuredly as he added more pressure; the assailant in white knew it wouldn’t be long. Akira’s eyes were half-lidded, and the corner of his mouth had a trickle of spit coming from it; he looked utterly delirious, and he certainly unable to hear by then. Still, the attacker knew his plan and refused to deviate from it – he would savor every look on his face and commit it to memory. His target didn’t _deserve_ broken bones or blood – maybe those nameless, pathetic creatures in the past warranted such treatment, but not this one. Akira had earned something greater than the tactics reserved for mediocre, petty targets.

                The boy in black opened his eyes defiantly as his hands fell slack to the ground, drained of strength. In them, Goro saw his understanding, somber though it was: this was planned intricately and well in advance. Every step, every detail he could barely discern as his vision got darker – all of them had been expertly curated. All those times together – every furtive glance, every word whispered in confidence, every moment spent enjoying each other’s presence – had led to this ending. Even so, something in Akira couldn’t call this a betrayal.

                The last image he saw was Goro’s face, faintly glazed with sweat, softly exhaling from exertion. His eyes softly closed as his head fell slack against the flowers, life finally spent.

                A weight had been lifted from Akechi Goro’s chest, replaced with a dull, hollow echo; a sense of completion and a void. He dismounted from the body, looming over it as he did before, seeming to look for a sign that the deed had not been done. His ungloved left hand carded through the body’s black hair, appreciating its soft texture even when stained with sweat. His fingers glided along his jawline to the neck – sure enough, there were red, burning bruises along there. Not as bad as they could have been, Goro mused; he had kept his word to be delicate. Finally, Goro slipped a sullied hand under Akira’s shirt from the bottom hem, gently passing over the faintly cooling flesh to his heart, feeling no sign of life.

                Still, the face and body had remained nearly perfect. If it weren’t for the bruises on the neck, Goro would have sworn Akira was merely asleep.

                Goro knelt beside his former friend’s body as if praying in supplication. His hands once again reached for the form before him, cupping Akira’s face and looking into closed eyes he knew would not open again. He hoped – prayed for understanding, pressing his forehead against the body’s: _This was the greatest gift I could ever give you. You had to die; I knew and you knew. But for someone like you, a common, ordinary death was unacceptable. Yours needed to be tailored to your tastes: on a day you loved, in a place chosen for you, done by someone who knew how._

                Those thoughts, buried deep beneath adrenaline and orders and hatred, could not become words for the young man. Instead, he looked down at the face he cradled,  let his thumb skim at its cheekbone, and managed one meager phrase: “You deserved better.” Solemnly, he lowered the head back down into the shallow garden, noting the even more stark contrast: monochrome and color, death and life. Grotesque as Goro knew it was, the image was still quite beautiful, just the way Akira would have wanted it.

                The whole ordeal read like a fairy tale, he mused: the elaborate stone castle, the mysterious garden, the immaculate stained glass, the dark plot, the moribund, noble figure with hair of pitch, lips of rose, and skin like snow. Looking at his own garments, Goro realized that he, too, fit the scene: the perfect prince, ever so charming in divine white and gold. Reverently, he leaned in close to the body once more, mere millimeters away from Akira’s face.

                “A token of my esteem,” he whispered in attempt at regality as he touched the sides of his face, “for the greatest opponent I ever knew.”

                Their lips touched for the first and last time.

                Goro felt a pang of bitterness in his chest. This was no fairytale: evil defeated good, the bad guys would not be punished, and love did not conquer all. Most of all, the sleeping form laying framed in flowers would never awaken, not even with a kiss. He moved the arms to place them over the body, grateful that they were not too stiff yet, and carefully wove Akira’s fingers together as if they were holding something to his chest. The so-called prince picked three flowers then – carnation, red camellia, and the same forget-me-nots Akira had given him – and placed them under the body’s hands. As he stood to leave, Goro took one final look at the corpse on the floor, knowing that no one except him would ever know what happened or what they shared. It was back to the world of twisted adults, wicked step-and-not-step parents, bullets as curses, and no magic potions or spells.

                Before he could leave, Goro heard small, light footsteps following him. Turning then, he saw a young man about his age with shaggy brown hair wearing a tattered and dirtied black and blue version of his own pristine garb. The figure shivered and choked back a sob, recoiling into itself like a lost, fearful animal, desperate for rescue but unable to trust his would-be savior. The figure shared Goro’s every feature – except, of course, those golden-yellow eyes. The affectations and gilded glare _infuriated_ the detective.

                He spat on the false countenance, easily dodging the weak child’s attempt to grab his hand. The real Goro scoffed with and continued exiting the castle, refusing ever to look back. He needed no more reminders that no hope for rescue or justice would ever come.


End file.
